


if you do come by

by DevilishKurumi



Series: you're a bad man, cronus ampora, and you know it. [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Collegestuck, Dubious Consent, Humanstuck, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 22:39:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilishKurumi/pseuds/DevilishKurumi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cronus gets drunk on New Years and winds up sleeping it off with Kankri.  (Sequel to "mister in-between".)</p>
            </blockquote>





	if you do come by

**Author's Note:**

> im really really sorry

            You are so drunk that you don't think they have a name for how drunk you are.  They'll call it Amporaing in your honor.  You take another swig from a water bottle full of vodka, the one you've been carrying around all night while barhopping.  You'd been with friends - or, well, the closest you've got - but you'd strayed from their side and now you're pretty sure your in a completely different county from where you started.

            Except you sort of recognize the places you're walking by as places you'd been three hours ago.  But whatever.  You _feel_ like you're in another county.

            You hit a trashcan with your hip and go down like a sack of bricks, toppling sideways and only barely able to grab the wall behind you to keep from completely collapsing.  Shit, you are fucking _drunk_.

            Nobody asks if you're okay.  They just sort of give you sympathetic glances and sometimes a thumbs up that you barely return.  You check your phone and find it to be nearly last call.  You should probably go home.

            You don't remember where you parked your car.  Shit, you must be really fucking messed up if you can't remember _that_.  You usually care a whole lot about where you put your car at, but right now, you don't even care about where _you_ are.  All you know is that you don't want to go home alone.

            Before you realize what you're doing, you're tabbing through your contacts, picking at a random number with no contact information.  That means it's someone you aren't friends with.  Free game, you figure.

            "Hello?" comes a sleepy, rough voice after not too long.  You grin at your phone and then hold it to your ear again, trying to remember who owned that sexy little number of a voice.

            "Hey, baby," you say, "What are you doin', sleepin' at this hour, when we could be ringin' in the new year together?"

            There's a long pause, just enough to almost get you to hang up, and then, more recognizably, you hear, "Cronus?  Is that you?"

            You know you know that voice now.  You just need the name.  "Yeah," you say, "That's me."

            "Are you all right?  I, uh.  Never actually expected you to call me, given how our conversations seem to go..."

            Ah, shit.  Fucking Kankri.  That's who it is.  You hadn't really realized it until he'd started yammering on about whatever the fuck he talks about usually.  You're trying to booty-call the one person who refuses to give up his booty to you - that's a goddamn fucking shame.

            "I'm fine," you say, cutting off his diatribe, "I'm just fuckin', y'know, hangin' out.  Celebratin'."  Fuck it.  Might as well try to get blood from this stone.  Maybe he'll give up and give in, if you keep it up.  "Figured you might be down to party."

            "Um.  It's late," he says, and you know he's going to fail you right here and now.  "Maybe you shouldn't be partying any more."

            "It's fuckin' like... not even that late.  The donut place is still open, for fuck's sake."

            "Winchell's?" Kankri asks.  He sounds skeptical.

            "Yeah.  I'm gonna get some fuckin' donuts and party with them until they close, if you're not gonna be a fuckin' bro here."

            "Winchell's is a twenty-four-hour place, Cronus, it doesn't close."

            "Fuckin' perfect, then."

            "Are you on the main strip?"

            "I guess."  You struggle to your feet, then put your phone back to your ear.  "What'd you say?"

            "I'm coming to get you," he says, and you scowl.

            "Fuck that.  I'm gonna get donuts an' find someone more fun than you."  The Winchell's sign is like a signal flare, a block over from where you're standing.  Donuts are going to make everything better.  Not that there's anything wrong to make better, but donuts are never a bad idea.

            You bump into a guy who looks kind of familiar, but he dodges your glance and keeps walking.  Fuck him.  "Cronus," Kankri's saying, "You sound like you need to sit down and drink some water.  I'm going to come take you home."

            "Fuck you," you say again, and hang up.  Kankri's too much of a pussy to come get you after that - he'll waffle about it, then give up and go back to bed and text you tomorrow.  You've only talked to him a few times since you met him, and none of the conversations were very good.  He talks a lot of bullshit, and he gets uncomfortable the second you try to hit on him, and you're pretty sure you ruined that escapade before it even started.  You shouldn't have gotten so fucking worked up in the car.  He was totally going to give you a blowjob, if you hadn't fucking screwed up.

            Shit.  That guy.

            You look back, but the man's gone, and whatever made you think about him fades into white noise.  You pick up your pace again, staggering along the sidewalk towards the glowing donut sign.  You just want sugar and frosting and more fucking sugar.  And water, you guess.

            Oh, and vodka.  You uncap your bottle and take a swig, relishing in that clean, crisp burn.  Nothing like whiskey or bourbon, which is usually more your style.  You should write a song about that.  About the different ways alcohol burns.

            You're humming a dazed chorus to yourself when you finally reach the donut shop.  The guy behind the counter gives you an unappreciative look, but you ignore it in favor of buying one of those big bags of glazed donut holes and neglecting a tip as you stagger back out into the night.

            You sit next to the big trash can outside, stretching out your legs and chewing thoughtfully on the donut hole in hand.  You wish life could always be like this, sometimes.  Just you, the mind-numbing effects of alcohol, and donuts.  Fuck yeah.  Everything would be better if you could just have that.

            You guess you could just be homeless and live off Winchell's for the rest of your life, but that'd make you fat and you'd never get laid, so you write that off as a bad idea.  You guess you're not drunk enough.

            "Cronus?"

            You tilt your head up to find Kankri standing over you, wearing that ugly red sweater of his, his pants hiked up too high and his socks showing.  You really shouldn't even let him be seen near you - he's such a fucking buzzkill that you can pretty much feel fun wither and die around him.

            "What the fuck are you doing here?" you ask, because you thought he wasn't coming.

            "I told you," he says, "I'm taking you home.  You shouldn't be out here by yourself, Cronus; drinking alone is a huge warning sign for alcoholism, and excuse me for saying so, but the amount that you drink somehow manages to _exceed_ excess, which is a feat you may feel very proud of right now, but come sobriety, I'm sure you'll see that this is the best thing to do right now - Cronus?"

            "I'm gonna be sick," you say, and you think you're joking until you actually say it.  The fucking donuts.  Oh god, the donuts fucking betrayed you.

            Kankri manages to get you to your feet in time for you to grab the edge of the trash bin and upchuck right into it; this is probably the stupidest fucking situation you could possibly be in right now and you kind of hate yourself for it.

            "I tried to tell you on the phone," Kankri's saying, rubbing your back with his warm hand as you puke, sounding so fucking smug that you wish you had gotten sick on his shoes.  "A lot of alcohol and sugary foods rarely mix well, you really need to be more careful about what you choose to do with yourself - it's your life and I can't tell you how to live it, but really, Cronus -"

            "Shut up," you manage to say, coughing and spitting and feeling a whole lot better.  "Seriously, listening to you makes my head hurt more than when I have to deal with fucking Captard."

            " _Cronus_ ," Kankri snaps, "Don't use that kind of language."

            "Oh, fuck you," you say, and then you feel maybe a little bad for it.  Not a _lot_ , okay, but Kankri _is_ just trying to help you out here.  You don't get a lot of people rolling in just to help you out without any ulterior motives - and you're pretty sure Kankri doesn't have a motive here - so you shouldn't be looking a gift horse in the face.

            It doesn't seem to matter how callous you are, though, because Kankri just sighs and waits for you to finish getting your stomach back in line.  You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.  "Are you feeling well enough to go home?"

            He sounds like a disappointed mom (or even worse, a disappointed brother), and you feel miserable when you nod.  He doesn't seem to notice; he just takes you by the arm and leads you to his little white sedan, making sure you're in the passenger seat and buckled in before going around to climb in himself.  He doesn't say anything as he maneuvers out of the parking lot.  You try to keep your eyes focused on something solid and unmoving, so you don't throw up again.

            When Kankri asks for directions, though, you have to look around, and it gives you a nasty headache.  But you do it still, navigating him through the streets to your apartment complex.  You're so fucking tired, and the back of your throat tastes like acid.  All you want now is to crash and pretend that this night hadn't ended on such a lame note.

            The worst part about it all is that Kankri keeps _talking_ \- you have no idea what he's going on about, but you're pretty sure he doesn't care if you're listening or not.  He's just talking to cover up the fact that he's completely uncomfortable being in the car with you.  You might not be the most observant guy in the world, but you know that Kankri only keeps in your company when you're in public, or otherwise surrounded by people.  It kind of offends you, to be honest.  Just because you were a little overzealous when you met him doesn't mean that you're a bad person.  You'd thought you explained that.

            By the time your apartment complex is in sight, though, you've managed to talk yourself down from being a complete bastard.  Sure, Kankri isn't that comfortable with you, but he still drove out to pick you up because he thought you needed help.  That's a good sign, right?  It means Kankri is willing to be around you.

            That's especially good because you're going to need help up the stairs to your apartment.  Kankri pulls into one of the spaces marked for visitors, and you roll your shoulders.  "Thanks for the lift," you say.

            "You're welcome," is all Kankri says in return.

            You frown, fumbling with the lock on the door, and then finally you sigh - you try to make it sound more unwilling than it actually is - and look over at him again.  "Uh.  D'you think you can help me up the stairs?  Kinda a long walk."

            "Um."  Kankri looks at the dashboard, checking the time, and then he sighs and nods.  "Of course.  I wouldn't want you to get hurt."

            "Cool, thanks."

            You manage to get out of the car, holding onto the frame as you make your way around to the driver's side, and Kankri stares at you as you wobble over to him.  You're so fucking drunk.  You shouldn't have had those donuts.

            "Just up the stairs," you say, and then you throw your arm over his shoulder because you need something to support you.  Kankri winces and bristles momentarily beneath your touch, but he doesn't shove you away.  He helps you up the curb and across to the stairs leading up to the second floor, taking them as slow as you are, not saying much of anything to you, which is kind of a fucking surprise.  You're used to him rambling to fill the uncomfortable silence between you two; having him silently focusing on helping you is kind of weird.  You don't know if you like it.

            It takes you three tries to fumble the right key into the lock, and Kankri lets you pull him along as you stagger into your apartment and flip on the light in the kitchen; you've long since given up worrying about the stacked dirty dishes and dusty stovetop, and you pay similar attention to the dirty clothes and leftover cartons lying around your living room.  The only things that you actually care about in the apartment are your television, stereo system and guitar, and they're all in pristine fucking condition, perfectly set up for admiration.  Kankri, of course, doesn't fucking admire them at all.  Not that you really expected him to.

            "Are you, um.  Going to throw up, or anything?  Would you like me to... help you with anything else?"

            You can hear it in his voice - he wants to leave.  You think about that for just long enough to realize how fucking pathetic it is to have the one person in your entire contact list who would come get you want to leave as quickly as possible, and then you say, "No, fuck, I - oh my god, man, you need'a relax a little.  Fuckin' take a load off, or somethin'."

            "It's just that it's a bit late, and I was hoping to get a good night's sleep, since I've been-"

            "Kankri, man, chill out, it's the fuckin' new year!  How are you gonna ring it in if you're sleepin' in your lil' onsie pajamas with a teddie bear clutched in your arms or whatever?  You gotta make the most of it before it's too late, man."

            Kankri shifts uncomfortably by the door, and you can see the guilt in his eyes, that same sort you remember when you first met him, the sort of "an upperclassman is talking to me" freshman guilt that's hard to shake.  You like that shit.  It makes people hang out with you.  He frowns, then haltingly closes the door behind him.  You stagger further into your apartment, stopping in the kitchen to pull out two beers, thrusting one into Kankri's hands before continuing on to the living room.

            Kankri doesn't quite come all the way into the room, lingering near the wall separating it from the kitchen.  You don't call him out on it, though, because he's cracked open the can and you'll take your victories where you get them.  He doesn't say anything about the laundry littering your floor, or the dishes, or anything at all.  You're actually starting to feel like you should be annoyed by how damned quiet he's being.  "What's the deal, Kankri?  You're not talkin' much.  Usually you won't shut the fuck up."  You couple the comment with a laugh that doesn't fit, too drunk to care, and Kankri looks momentarily hurt.  You try not to take it seriously.

            "I just assumed that due to how much you drank, you'd be even less receptive to what I have to say, and I didn't want to hassle you any more than you're probably already doing to yourself-"

            "Shit, I'm not worried about it one way or another," you say, cutting him off mid-sentence, "Don't fuckin' worry on my half."

            "Behalf."

            "Whatever.  C'mon, man, just stick around for the, uh, the beer.  It's just a lil' fuckin' nightcap.  Chill out for a bit."

            Kankri fidgets, then cautiously comes closer, creeping into the living area, moving around laundry to make his way to your couch.  You lean into the cushions and visibly relax.  Kankri doesn't sit down when he reaches you, though; instead, he stands in the middle of the room, looking around as though he's exploring some dark new universe.  You wonder if he's thinking about how many people you've had over here.  You wonder if you should tell him that the number isn't as high as he's probably thinking.

            "So," he says, reluctantly sipping at his beer.  "Where did your friends go?"

            "Who?"  You look at him briefly before shaking your head.  "Nah, they weren't exactly friends.  More like people I'm okay to drink with, or somethin'.  They hit up a place I didn't wanna go to, so I struck out on my own.  It's all good."

            "Oh," he says.  "Okay."

            You take a long drink from your can, then tilt your head towards your guitar.  "You wanna hear some music?  I made a, uh.  Resolution.  To play more often."

            "Oh," he says again, and you think it's a little less hesitant than before.  "Um.  All right, sure.  I can't see anything wrong with that."

            You grin and stand, staggering over to grab your guitar.  It's an old piece of shit, and sometimes the E string untunes itself while you're playing, but you don't mind.  It serves its purpose, and more than that, it gives you that feeling of agedness, like you've been playing it for decades.  In reality, it's only been yours for a year and a half, and you don't know who had it before then.

            "You know anythin' about Mumford and Sons?"

            Kankri shakes his head.  "No?  I think I may have heard one of their songs, but I'm not sure it was something I-"

            "It's cool, they have a few popular songs on the radio."  You don't need to hear him talking about how he doesn't like banjo solos or whatever the fuck he's about to say.  You settle against the wall, running through tuning the strings as quickly as you can; the E string sticks for once, so you take that as a good omen.  Kankri is watching you with unabashed curiosity, and the expression on his face fills your gut with the warm feeling of acknowledgement.

            You start with some basic chords before working yourself up to the actual chords of the song.  Strumming as accurately and carefully as you can, you work your way out of the opening and finally open your mouth to sing.  You hope, suddenly, that you don't sound like total shit.

            "How fickle my heart and how woozy my eyes," you sing, and you can hear your voice crack near the end of the line, a wretched sounding rise in your voice that you have to force yourself past.  "I struggle to find any truth in your lies - and now my heart stumbles on things I don't know; my weakness I feel I must finally show..."

            You continue along, trying to ignore how your voice cracks and lilts unfortunately over every few syllables.  You don't know why, but you force yourself to keep going, trying to focus on your fingers and not on the way your voice sounds as you sing, because you like the rough-around-the-edges thing you've got going on usually, and you don't want to get self-conscious in front of someone.  You try not to look at Kankri either, knowing that he's probably staring, probably wondering if you do this for lots of people or if you thought about convincing him to come listen to you when you got into the car, or if you have some kind of ulterior motive. You stumble over the strings and try not to think too much about how badly you want to get laid.  Or how awful you sound.

            "In these bodies we will live, in these bodies we will die," you sing, and you see Kankri staring at you and you think about his stupid red sweater and how much you want to get his mouth on your dick, and you stumble the chords and sing, "And where you invest your love, you invest your life," and watch Kankri nurse his beer.

            You sing through a few more lines, and as you play you can feel the E string loosening, and then you can hear it, and you have to stop.  "Shit.  Piece of shit can't keep tuned," you sigh.

            "Oh," Kankri says.  "I didn't even notice.  It sounded.  Um.  Really very nice."

            "Sounds better with a banjo," you mutter, putting the guitar down and picking your beer back up. "Doesn't matter.  I'm pretty hammered, the fact that I got that much out is a goddamn miracle."

            Kankri looks at you and you force yourself to not look back; you don't want to give him the impression that you're looking for compliments, or that you're still clinging to that distant thought of getting a blowjob from him.  You're too drunk to properly engage him for that.  Maybe tonight, you should just focus on... fucking getting to know him, or something.  You probably wouldn't even be able to keep it up if you got anywhere, anyway.  You keep looking at the distant corner of the living room.

            "Cronus," Kankri says, slowly, a little like he doesn't know what he wants to say, or maybe that he _does_ know what he wants to say, just now how he should start.  You look at him, and he twists his hands against the hem of his sweater.  "Why did you call me?"

            Shit.  You huff and take a swig from your can and try to figure out how to salvage this situation.  You're too drunk to come up with an elaborate lie about why you thought he would be a good person to call out of all the people you know.

            "I just..."  You shrug.  Shit.  Don't go for elaborate.  "Dunno.  You were the first one I thought'a to call, I guess."

            You shuffle your feet a little, try to play down the fact that you're playing up your awkwardness, and when you look back at him, he's staring.

            "Oh," he says.  "I...  I wouldn't have expected that."

            "What, that I'd think about someone beyond just fuckin', like, who's good to party with or whatever?"

            "Uh.  No.  Not exactly."  Kankri looks at his beer, then takes it up in both hands.  "More like...  I wouldn't really expect _anyone_ to just think to call me out of the blue."  The _especially you_ is left off, but you know it's there.  He lifts his can and drinks the rest of its contents in a few thick gulps.

            "That's..."  Pretty fucking pathetic, if you say so yourself, but in all honesty, you can't say you don't understand the sentiment.  You move back over to the couch and sit down next to Kankri, throwing your unoccupied arm over his shoulder and giving him a decidedly manly pat on the shoulder.  "That's fuckin' stupid.  You're okay, Kankri, maybe a little too fuckin' verbose for anyone's taste an' maybe you get caught up on the issues that hardly even matter about a situation, but hey, who doesn't have their quirks?"

            Kankri shifts against you, kind of away from you though not really noticeable, but you don't make any move to pull away from him.  He'll get comfortable.  You just paid him a fucking compliment, right?  How can he be uncomfortable after a compliment?

            "Uh.  I suppose that's true.  It's only that I'm not much for partying, and I take my studies a lot more seriously than anyone else I know, and it seems like most of the time, when I start talking about something that I think is interesting, people tune me out.  I don't think they want to listen to it."

            "Well, that shit's easy to fix!  All you gotta do is talk about shit other people're interested in, not what you're interested in.  It's what I do, and I know loads of people."

            "Yes, but..."  He shrugs, and you feel him relax under your arm just a bit.  "I don't want to just know people.  I want...  I...  I don't know.  This is silly."

            You let him get comfortable with you as you talk, gesturing a little with your hand against his shoulder.  "You wanna _know_ people.  Like, friends an' shit like that.  It's cool, pal.  Everybody wants to make friends, that's kinda the fuckin' point.  But you gotta... you know, loosen up with the whole academic Green Peace spiel an' let people get to know the you past all that social justice... y'know, malarkey."

            " _Malarkey_?" Kankri asks, and you're kind of surprised to see him giving you a bemused little half-smile that almost seems sardonic.

            "Hey, shut up, it's a real fuckin' word."

            "It just seems kind of old-fashioned," he says, and you shrug your shoulders and smile.

            "Maybe, but it's a good word anyway.  Yo, want another drink?"

            "I probably shouldn't," he says, in a way that makes you think that maybe he will, if you push the issue.

            "C'mon, chief.  It'll be fine," you say, and when you get up you purposefully don't try to touch him too much.  You know how to play the boundaries game.  You know that you're too drunk to pull anything, anyway.  You know he'd run if you did.  "Just a little whiskey, okay?  It's a real nightcap, not like that Rolling Rock bullshit."

            "I...  I suppose, if I don't drink too much, it'll be okay."

            You were sort of expecting more of a fight, but you'll take your easy wins where you get them.  The fifth of Jameson is hidden away inside your designated liquor cabinet, and you contemplate just grabbing it before deciding to bring along two shot glasses as well.  Kankri doesn't really strike you as a from-the-bottle type of guy.

            When you return to the couch and sit down, holding out one of the empty glasses, Kankri regards it warily.  "I've never taken a shot before," he says.

            "It's easy," you say, twisting off the cap and tilting the bottle towards your own glass.  "You ever taken Nyquil?"

            "Yes?"

            "Just treat it the same way.  It'll burn when it goes down, but it'll fix you right up."  You almost tell him it's the same thing you had in your flask when you first met him, but you really don't want to bring that whole fiasco up.  You don't want to think about it.  You've thought about it enough tonight.  So instead, you fill your shot glass nearly to the brim, then reach over and fill Kankri's up as well.  He regards your clumsy hand-over-hand maneuvering with some anxiety, but he doesn't say anything, and then you're holding your glass up and he has something entirely different to focus on.  "Cheers," you say.

            "Cheers," he responds, unsure, and then he watches as you throw the shot back with the blank face of a man too shitfaced to register the sting.  He follows your move, trying to get the motion the same, but he chokes and splutters and makes a terrible face at the taste.  " _Ugh_."

            "Atta boy," you say, and fill him up again before topping yourself off.  He purses his lips briefly, like he's going to say no, but then he gives it one more try.  This time, he swallows it all without coughing.  He still makes a face.  "See?  Just like Nyquil."

            "Do you drink this stuff a lot?" he asks, and you swallow down your shot.  You know you need to stop before you throw up again, but your stomach isn't upset and your head was starting to get too clear for your liking tonight, so you think you can probably do one more in a few minutes.

            "I dunno, I guess," you say, shrugging.  "My brother sent me this bottle for Christmas, but yeah, I drink Jameson pretty regularly.  It's what I get for being a musician," you add with a laugh, and because you mean it, it sounds a lot more sincere than usual.  At least, it does to your ears.  You're the only one who knows the difference between you faking it and you meaning it, though.

            Kankri looks at you but doesn't say anything, and you watch him roll the shot glass across his fingers.  You hold the bottle out to him and he stares at you for just a second too long for your comfort before taking it, pouring more liquor into his glass before rotating the bottle to read the label.  He runs his thumb along the rim of the glass while he reads, the slightly slick sound of his skin rubbing wet glass filling your ears as you hyperfocus.  You remember him under the lamplight with his hand around your dick, and you just barely fail to remember what had happened afterwards.

            He drinks and then says, "I'm sorry," like he's done something wrong.

            "What are you bein' sorry for now?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

            "I don't know," he mumbles, "I don't know."

            "Well, stop bein' sorry for shit you don't even know you're supposed to be sorry about," you say, "Nobody likes a pity party."

            "I know."

            He doesn't say anything after that, and when you put your arm around him again in a thinly veiled attempt to get the remote control to your television, he doesn't squirm away like he did before.  You forgot that he's a lightweight.  Three shots of whiskey isn't exactly a _little_ drink, even by your standards, so he's probably going to start feeling that sooner than he was hoping.  You already know he won't be driving until he's sober - he's not like you.  He won't just hop into the car and wing it.

            The two of you watch infomercials on the couch, the announcers' voices blaring just below too loud, and Kankri rubs his thumb around the edge of the shot glass again.  He laughs a little when the announcer mispronounces a word, and you think he might want to say something, but he's mostly quiet.  You're not sure you like that.  Even though you hate hearing him talk about nothing for fucking hours, you're not sure you enjoy him being so silent.  It's like a calm before a storm.  Or maybe it's just you, not wanting to be alone with your thoughts.

            He stops rubbing the rim of the glass.  You wonder, briefly, if he needs something to do with his hands when he's nervous or drunk or whatever he is right now.  You wonder, less briefly, if he'd want to get his hands on you.  But you're too drunk, and you're tired, and you're starting to feel queasy again, so there's no point in trying that out right now.  It's better if you wait, anyway.  You need to actually put in a little overtime with Kankri if you want to get anything back from him, and it's been a while since you've had a challenge so you don't really mind.

            You blink a few times, your eyes drying out from staying awake for so long with so much liquor in your system, and it's only two hours later, when you open your eyes and find early morning music videos playing, that you realize you'd fallen asleep at all.  It's almost five thirty in the morning.  You're still drunk, but it's a faded, fuzzy thing now, not pervasive like before.  You're slumped in your seat, legs stretched out in front of you, your arm around Kankri's shoulders still, and Kankri is sleeping with his head resting on the curve of your shoulder, right above your collarbone.  The back of his hand is pressed against your leg, his body turned in a half question mark, like he couldn't decide whether he wanted to sleep on his side or on his back.

            "Shit," you murmur, because Kankri's breath on your neck and his hand on your leg and the fading alcohol in your system are all working together to get you riled up.  You're already kind of hard.

            You know better than to try anything directly with someone who's asleep.  You're not that kind of guy.  You've seen porn where they've done that - chicks pretending to be passed out while some guy fucks them, dudes who willingly take sleeping medication so they can be felt up by other guys in their sleep, sometimes girls who are really asleep and being filmed by a cell phone - and you think that it's the lazy man's way of doing things.  There's no challenge in that kind of thing.  Hell, there's no honor in that, and you're not even really big on honor, you guess.

            Still.

            There's nothing dishonorable about you by yourself.  At least, you figure that's right, because nobody's said anything one way or another to you.  You're half-asleep and still drunk, and Kankri's breathing against your neck, and you think to yourself, _totally understandable_.  There's not a person in the tri-city area that would blame you.

            Kankri snores a little and squirms closer against your side, his stupid red sweater pulling up around his waist so that you can see just a little bit of skin beyond his mom jeans.  Jesus Christ, this kid needs serious help.  You should tell Porrim about this as soon as possible.  Except you won't, because then she'd wonder how you knew about it, and if she knew you'd done what you're only _thinking_ of doing, she'd probably have a case built around your expulsion before you could even blink.

            Which you guess should tell you how bad an idea you're having, but you don't think that you should consider hypothetical Porrim's opinions on the matter one goddamn bit.  You're riled up - ridiculously so with how drunk you are - and Kankri is so fucking passed out that he's not having an anxiety attack about being within five feet of you.  You don't even bother to let your own misgivings take root.

            You shift your weight a little, just to test, but Kankri moves bonelessly with you.  He'd been sleeping when you'd called him, so you guess he must be pretty tuckered out.  That's okay, though.  You prefer it that way right now.

            The music playing on the television drowns out the quiet sounds, so you don't even hear your zipper as you undo it, and the rustle of denim only barely reaches your ears.  Kankri sighs quietly.  You bite your lip and look down at him as you pull your dick out of your pants, moving cautiously at first, breathing deep when you finally get yourself freed up.  You wrap your hand around your dick and exhale slow, tighten your grip around the base before sliding your fingers up the shaft.  You move the arm around Kankri, brushing a few curls from his face, tracing the back of your index finger over a wispy little sideburn.  You press your thumb against the bump just below the head of your cock and dredge up enough of a memory to recall what Kankri's hand felt like around you.  He's a quick learner.  God, you want pull his hand over and just have him -

            You let go of your dick and reach over.  Kankri doesn't stir when you pull his hand out from between the two of you.  You leave it resting on your thigh for a minute, wrapping your hand around yourself again and stroking slow as you imagine Kankri reaching over, giving you that twice-shy look that he gets on his face whenever you hit on him.  You should probably be a little disgusted with yourself for finding that expression hot, but you don't care.

            You wonder if you could make out with him while he's asleep.  But there's no sporting chance there, and you've already made up your mind about it, so instead you just stroke your dick and stare at Kankri's hand on your thigh and think _what if_.

            What if you had Kankri lying on the couch instead of against you - what if you could get out from under him and find a way to get his mouth on your dick - what if he was awake and offered?

            You hiss through your teeth and run your thumb along the slit before laying off your dick completely; you take Kankri's hand again, cup it in your own and wrap it around your cock, already leaking because you're a lot closer than you'd thought.  You feel Kankri's soft palm around you and you go slow, painfully slow, guiding his hand along your shaft, rubbing your finger across the bump again, which feels _weird_ when you're mostly being handled by someone else.

            You can't go fast like this, though, because Kankri _will_ wake up, and you definitely don't want that, so, when you're aching and ready to scream with frustration, you settle his hand back on your thigh, near your knee.  You hesitate for a second.  What if you used this chance to see what he's packing in those hideous jeans of his?

            No, that'd _definitely_ wake him up.

            You stare at Kankri's crotch and his hand and look at his face a little, too, as you jerk yourself off, your finger still brushing against Kankri's sideburn, his breath still hot on your neck.  His lips move, almost against your skin, and you rock your hips into your hand and bite your lip until you're nearly bleeding when you come, unable to stop a hitching little breath and an uttered, " _Fffuck_ ," when you do.

            Kankri hasn't woken up.  You slide your foot under a nearby dirty tee shirt and pull it up into your lap, cleaning yourself off as you mentally catalogue the shirt for later laundry runs, then tuck yourself back into your pants and zip up.  You heave a shaky sigh and let your head fall back against the couch again; you realize that you're still stroking Kankri's face, and you force yourself to put your hand back on his shoulder.  You still feel buzzed.  It's always kind of awkward when you get off with someone else - knowing participant or not - because you were taught to return the favor whenever possible.  But Kankri is asleep and he would most definitely not be into that kind of reciprocation, so you force yourself out of that bizarre fantasy and watch television instead.

            You're almost asleep again when Kankri finally stirs, groaning quietly as he sits up.  You pretend to be more asleep than you are when he does, and it's only after he moves your arm off of his shoulders that you start waking up for him.

            "Time's it?" you ask, your mouth dry and your voice hoarse.  You actually know that it's about six-fifteen, but you figure he'd like the prompting to find out himself.

            He checks his watch, rubbing at his eyes.  "Six-seventeen.  I'm sorry, I wasn't going to fall asleep here."

            "Everythin's fine, chief."

            Kankri looks at you for a long moment, and then he sort of smiles at you, and nods.  "Yes, I suppose everything _is_ fine.  Still.  I didn't expect to fall asleep, is all.  ...Where's your bathroom?"

            You jerk a thumb over your shoulder and say, "Through the bedroom," and you make sure to hide that shirt from view while Kankri goes to use your facilities.  Last thing you need is for him to find that gross shit.

            "I need to go home," Kankri says when he comes out of your bedroom.  You nod.  "It's not that I'm necessarily eager to leave, so please don't take offense, it's just-"

            "Man, I get you.  Don't worry so fuckin' much.  You head home whenever you feel like.  I'm gonna get some more fuckin' sleep, though."

            "You should drink some water, too," Kankri adds helpfully.  "Would you like me to get you a glass before I go?"

            Your stomach twists uncomfortably and you shake your head.  "Nah.  Don't do anything on my behalf.  Just hit the road, Jack."

            Kankri smiles again and nods.  "Of course, you need your sleep.  ...If you want to call me again, sometime, if you're feeling like company or anything, you can."

            Aw, shit.

            You scrub at the back of your head with your hand and nod.  "Yeah, yeah, okay.  I'll text you later, or somethin'.  Scram, already."  You just barely manage to put some kind of pseudo-brotherly affection into your tone, pushing back that black-pit feeling that you're already starting to feel.  You haven't even gotten any sleep yet - can't you wait to feel like shit until after noon?

            "Well - see you around, Cronus," Kankri says, and when he leaves, you let out a low sigh and dig around the couch cushions for a cigarette.  You're going to smoke, then pass out, then wake up and forget all about that uncomfortable self-deprecating bullshit that Kankri seems to be really good at dredging up at just the wrong moments.

            You climb into your bed some fifteen minutes later, but when you close your eyes, all you can feel is memory heat on your neck and all you can think is that maybe, sometime soon, you'll have to accept that you might just be a bad person.  Not today, but someday.

            You jerk off again, thinking about Kankri's lips on your neck and what you'd do if you could just get him naked sometime, and when you wake up, you don't remember a whole lot of anything, and that works just fine for you.


End file.
